


honey, your soul could never grow old

by ohfiitz



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Childhood Friends, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2565830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohfiitz/pseuds/ohfiitz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story told in five promises. Fitzsimmons childhood friends AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	honey, your soul could never grow old

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maybesandsomedays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybesandsomedays/gifts).



i.

 

Leopold Fitz is six years old is about to make the most important announcement of his life, head held high and looking up at his parents with great resolve.

  
“Jemma and I are getting married.”  
  
He gets a blink from his mother and a blatant snort from his father. Not quite the ideal reactions he was looking for.  
  
“Oh Leo, that’s sweet, but you’re too young to get married, honey.”  
  
He knows that voice. It’s the same voice his mum used when she told him last week to stop trying to turn the wall clock into a time bomb, and it means _‘no’_.  
  
“I’m almost seven, mum.”  
  
That didn’t seem to work.  
  
“I already know the times table?”  
  
Still nothing.  
  
“And Jemma is my best friend in the world.”  
  
That finally earns him a smile.  
  
His father peers at him from the dining table, smirking, and his mum leans down, tipping his chin up and looking at him in the eyes. “And what made you think that’s a good enough reason to get married at six years old?” She asks.  
  
He shrugs. “It’s what grown-up people do, isn’t it? When they want to be with someone forever? Well, I want to be best friends with Jemma forever.”  
  
He remembers one night when he was five, curled up on the couch with his parents and pretending to be asleep. The rest is a vague memory, but he clearly remembers the faint sound of his parents kissing ( _Gross._ ) and his mum whispering seven words that always stayed with him since:   
  
 _“I’m glad I married my best friend.”_  
  
That memory made him believe that it’s what people did: marry their best friends and live happily ever after.  
  
It sounded like a responsible thing to do, and Leopold Fitz is a responsible six-year-old so he’s going to do it. He’s going to marry his best friend.  
  
“And what does Jemma think about this?” his mum asks. Well, he hasn’t considered that.  
  
“Jemma… um… I, well I… uh… I haven’t told her yet.”  
  
‘’You have to ask her, silly. It’s not a decision you make alone” his father adds, now apparently convinced of his son’s genius plan.  
  
Fitz frowns. He’s seen wedding proposals on the telly, and he knows that not all of them end well. And they involve rings, and flowers. And balloons. All those grown-up stuff. Maybe this was a bad idea.  
  
“Well, how did you ask mum?” he asks his father. His dad is an engineer. He goes to a fancy office and wears ties and shiny leather shoes and always makes intelligent decisions (he thinks). Surely he can be trusted on this kind of stuff.  
  
“Hmm… let’s see. For starters, I asked your grandpa first.”  
  
That’s it. He’s going to be a proper gentleman and ask for Mr. Simmons’ permission. Fitz never does anything half-baked, and if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do this right.  
  
—  
  
“Good morning, Mr. Simmons. I’m here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”  
  
Frank Simmons looks up from reading the morning paper and silently thanks whoever it was that drank all the coffee in the house, because if he was drinking right now, he would have spat the drink all over the skinny kid in front of him.  
  
“You’re here to ask for _what_ now, kid?”  
  
“I want to marry Jemma.” Mr. Simmons gives him the outraged look he expected. He’s prepared for this.  
  
“And what made you think that’s a good idea?”   
  
Fitz rolls his eyes. Why do adults ask so many questions?  
  
“Jemma’s my best friend” he says to his feet, voice shaking slightly. He has practiced this around ten times, but Mr. Simmons is an educated man, perhaps even more so than his own dad, and that intimidated him. (Jemma once proudly announced to their whole class that her father had three “doctorates”. Why having three _doctors_ is supposed to be a mark of high intellect, he doesn’t really know, but Jemma knows a whole lot more about grown-up things than he does, anyway, so he trusts her judgment.)  
  
The boy’s shy answer abates Frank’s initial shock, and he lets out an amused sigh. He’s six. Six-year-olds should be allowed to have fun. The Simmonses had, after all, taken a liking to the boy, and he knows Leo has probably drafted an elaborate plan for this whole thing and has presented it to his parents. The mere thought of the scene makes him smile. Raising a genius daughter with an equally genius best friend can be really confusing at times, but definitely entertaining.  
  
“Just don’t break her heart” the older man finally concedes.  
  
Great. Now Fitz just has to ask Jemma. Surely that will be much easier, right?  
  
—  
  
Wrong.  
  
It’s a weekend and they’re playing at her little garden and Simmons is enthusiastically poking at the soil, raving about how it’s so _absolutely fascinating that the earth can give life to these many organisms all at once and oh look, Fitz, an earthworm!_  
  
Should he kiss her? Maybe he should. He’s seen people do that in the proposal videos.  
  
“Close your eyes, Jemma. I’m going to kiss you now.”  
  
“Eww! Shut up, Fitz.” Jemma says with a giggle and throws a handful of mud on his face.  
  
—  
  
Proposals are too complicated, he thinks. Maybe this is why grown-ups need reality shows. To save them the trouble of finding the right timing and the right words to say. When he finally does it, though, he finds it easy and simple and natural, like everything else Fitz and Simmons have ever done since meeting at the monkey bars when they were four.  
  
“Jemma?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“You’re my best friend in the world.”  
  
“You’re my best friend in the world, too, Fitz.”  
  
“Then marry me.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
—  
  
It happens on a Sunday afternoon in the Simmonses’ backyard, Jemma wearing a flowy floral dress and Fitz wearing a crisp white shirt with his favorite Captain America tie (a present from Mrs. Simmons last Christmas). He has invited Mr. Coulson, the principal of their kindergarten school, to officiate, their best friends Skye and Trip, as well as Ward, the quiet boy from down the street who's a couple of years older.  
  
The ceremony goes quite perfectly, save from Skye who keeps shouting “Kiss!” every ten seconds, and Jemma shushing her down with a “It’s not a real wedding, Skye. It’s a friend-wedding. The best kind.” And by the time they have exchanged their friendship vows, Simmons’ head already hurts from too much eye-rolling.  
  
It’s a happy day, overall. Some of the neighbors thought it was weird, but the Fitz and Simmons spouses were just glad their children had found a friend in each other.  
  
  
  
  
  
ii.

  
“Gooood morning! Rise and shine, monkey boy.”

Fourteen-year-old Jemma Simmons is all dressed up and very much awake, bouncing excitedly in a bedroom she knows as well as her own, trying to wake up her best friend. He groans, and she rolls her eyes. Typical Fitzsimmons.

“Fiiiiiiiiiiiitz. Come on, it’s our first day of high school, you prat. We can’t be late.”

“‘Course we can. That’s exactly what first days are for.”

“How very… teenage-y of you. Fitz. Haven’t we talked about this? Just because you’re a genius doesn’t mean you can disregard the value of edu—”

“Okay okay, calm down.” She sounds genuinely upset now, and that is not acceptable. Not when she’d spent weeks fussing about ‘the first day of the rest of their lives.’ (She already has her valedictory address written out.) “I’m getting up now.”

“And remember what you promised.”

“Yeah, I know. Jemma Simmons is old enough to have a boyfriend and I am not to get in the way of that. And I wouldn’t worry about that, Jem. I’m sure you’re gonna do just fine.”  
Objectively, Simmons is pretty. Gorgeous, even. And smart. And funny. And even though he hasn’t thought of her like that (not since they were eight, anyway), he’s not stupid to not notice that his best friend is practically perfect.

“Not if you keep telling people that we’re married—”

“—well _technically_ —”

“—when we’re not even dating—”

“—we did have a ceremony, though—”

“—and I am not letting a silly childhood game ruin my high school experience, Fitz.”

He snorts, deliberately ignoring the odd feeling in his chest when she says it, because apparently, boys are a significant part of high school for Jemma Simmons. And she’s right, anyway. 

“Fine,” he says with a sigh. The whole high school thing has been a big deal for her and he knows he should be supportive, but he can’t help but worry about losing her. She already cancelled one of their regular sleepovers the previous week, fussing about how it’s “terribly improper for a lady to be sleeping so often in a boy’s room,” and he tries to ignore the fact that he already misses his best friend even before high school began.

As expected, it doesn’t take long for someone to ask her out.

His name is George. He’s a junior and he’s tall and has pretty hair and doesn’t seem to be too dumb. Other than that, Fitz doesn’t really know much about the prat, but he hates him. Because he gets to hold her hand and brush her bangs off her face and kiss her nose when she does the scrunchy thing Fitz always adored. Not that he wants to kiss his best friend, that would be weird, but it just seems cruel that some jerk who doesn’t even know her favorite ice cream flavor gets to touch her in a way he never allowed himself to. He is also almost certain that it’s the same boy he saw snogging his cousin during the summer, but a promise is a promise: Jemma Simmons’ love life is none of his business.

(It only lasts a couple of weeks until she confirms that jerkface George is indeed snogging Fitz’s cousin, and it only takes one standard Fitz-Simmons sleepover (mint ice cream, a blanket fort, Classic Who marathon) to convince her that yes, thallium poisoning counts as murder, and no, “my first boyfriend is a cheating doucheface jerkbag” is not a valid defense.)  
  
  
  
  
  
iii.

  
It was an unspoken pact between them, to be each other’s first choice. When they were little, Simmons had this handheld gaming console her father got her from Japan. All the neighborhood kids wanted to try the thing, and Simmons, being Jemma Simmons, devised a rotation system so that everyone can have their turn. She only had one rule: _Leo Fitz always comes first_. 

Over the years, the rule has grown and seeped into every aspect of their lives. From the playground to the classroom, from gaming consoles to middle school dances, it’s just what they did. They picked each other. Always.

That is, until Fitz started feeling less like a choice and more like a convenient fixture in her life. Like an old gaming console she doesn’t necessarily want anymore but never throws away because it’s always been there. It’s familiar. It’s hers. 

In truth, Jemma has never shown anything that would suggest so, but Fitz has found and held on to that seed of doubt, and doubt is always a dangerous thing to keep. And so when prom season comes around, he finds himself in her room, doing the exact opposite of a proposal. She’s probably been asked by the entire male population of the school, and she’s probably turned down all of them because she feels obligated to go with her best friend. It’s a reverse proposal, he supposes. A chance for her to un-choose him.

“You don’t have to keep choosing me anymore, Jemma.”

He is trembling, and it’s the most lost she’s seen him since his dad died the year before.

“I know.”

“Yeah?” he asks, and it pains her how it sounds like he’s been expecting it, like he’s begging her for some sort of preemptive rejection.

She answers with a soft press of her lips on his. “Yeah,” she breathes against his mouth, and it’s enough. She doesn’t need to choose him, but she does. She does. She does. She always will.   
  
  
  
  
  
iv.

  
“Do you regret it?” he whispers to the quiet of her university dorm room.

“What?” she asks softly, not glancing up from where her head is pillowed on his chest, fingers lazily skimming up his sides. _He’s beautiful_ , she thinks. He’s fragile and strong and delicate and _hers_. And maybe he’ll always be that shy little boy who tried to kiss her while she was digging up her garden, but she gets to dig his skin now; she gets to touch and mark and learn every inch of him, and he’s beautiful.

“Me being your first?”

It makes her chuckle. Still her shy little boy, indeed.

“Fitz. You’re my boyfriend and my best friend in the world. Why on earth would I regret having sex with you?”

“It’s just that… never mind. It’s nothing.”

She finally looks at him, resting her chin right above his heart. He’s nervous, she can tell, and it worries her because Fitz has never tried to hide from her before. She raises her eyebrows in silent question.

His answer comes out in a rush, like a gasp, like it’s a secret that’s been trapped in his ribcage for years:

“I’m afraid you’re going to get tired of me.”

She laughs.

“As if I can stand not being beside you the whole damn time.”

It’s light, teasing, but it’s the truth, and Jemma never was a good liar anyway.

He believes it.

“You did, though. When we were starting high school.”

“Well, Leopold, that was before we stopped pretending we weren’t in love with each other so no, that doesn’t count. You’re stuck with me now, whether you like it or not.”

“Is that a threat?”

She kisses him, soft and sweet and insistent. She’s proving a point.

  
  
  
“It’s a promise.”  
  
  
  
  
  
v.

_  
“Jemma?”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“You’re my best friend in the world.”_

_“You’re my best friend in the world, too, Fitz.”_

_“Then marry me.”_

_“Okay.”_

  
The proposal happens as easily as the one 20 years prior, and they exchange vows on a Sunday afternoon, her wearing a flowy dress, him wearing his best suit, their mothers sharing knowing glances with one another. Only this time there are flowers and men in kilts and a string quartet. Only this time Mr. Coulson was a guest, not the officiant. Only this time it was real.

He’s the first one to cry. He promised himself he wouldn’t, but it only takes the sight of her in a wedding dress for him to break, feeling blissful and undeserving and as in love with his best friend as he has been every day for the past 20 years.

They build a blanket fort in the honeymoon suite after Jemma insists that it’s an indispensable sleepover tradition, and he cries for the fifth time that night when he realizes that this one, unlike the many others they’ve shared, will last forever.

( _I married a dork_ , she says a bit shakily, scrunching her nose and rolling her misty eyes. He wipes her tears, she kisses his, and they hold each other for the rest of the night until he is roused awake by a very naked Mrs. Jemma Fitz-Simmons on top of him, pressing a line of heated, insistent kisses to his neck.)

  
—

  
One night in their third year of marriage, the two of them lay curled up together on the couch, legs and fingers and every inch of soul and skin tangled together, both just basking in each other’s presence. She kisses him soundly and it feels just as wonderful as that night he tried to get her to leave. She breathes seven words into his lips, tasting like Jemma and strawberry Chapstick and all the promises they have ever shared:

  
  
 _“I’m glad I married my best friend.”_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So okay, I started writing this thing a couple of months ago and I obviously suck at fluff but, well, _I tried_. Special thanks to Cindy (Anthropologicality) for beta-ing this and just being a great person in general. 
> 
> I hope you like it! Feedback, as always, is much appreciated. :)


End file.
